On one of the ferry rides I’d met this guy named Walter. He told me he lived in Petrohue and I should come visit once I finished the Carretera. At the time, this wasn’t on my itinerary, and by the time I realized I’d have time after all, I’d lost the card he gave me.

Literally within ten seconds of arriving, however, I heard someone call my name. I turned, and there was Walter.

His grandfather acquired a chunk of land some seventy years ago, and now around fifteen different families have built their houses there, all of them related. Some, like Walter, live there year-round and work in tourism, while others have jobs in Puerto Montt or Santiago, but come back in summer so the children can run around like crazy people and play. It seems like a pretty sweet life. Plus, there are always tourists passing through and camping there, which is how several of Walter’s sisters and cousins and other relatives met their spouses.

I stayed for three days; Walter’s family basically adopted me. They even had me out selling “kuchen” (cake, a German word that has stuck in Southern Chile). It went within five minutes. I tried to imagine doing that at home — baking something, putting it on a plate, going outside and shouting, “Cake! Cake for sale!” I just don’t think that would work in the city.

Petrohue is gorgeous. Some day I want to climb the volcano there. Walter says he has a friend who’s a guide and who would give me a discount — you need a guide for the ice-climbing at the top.

There is no question that I want to go back to Chile; the only question is when. Perhaps Amy and Brian, the friends who initially proposed the trip, will come with me next time. We shall see. And I’d like to do other bike trips, though I don’t know where yet.

In the meantime, I am preparing — I came home and got a part-time job as a bike mechanic.

Lago Llanquihue

Puerto Varas is undeniably beautiful, but being there was a bit of a culture shock. Everything screams, “Hey, tourists! Come in here and give us your money!” There are hotels everywhere, restaurants with menus in English, and a massive casino. The campsite I stayed at cost more than twice as much as any other place I camped, but was about a tenth as friendly. The owners (managers more likely; the owner could live in Miami for all I know) never told me their names, and the only guest who talked to me was a four year old girl (“What are you doing? What’s your name? Who did you marry?”) and then later on, her parents.

I can’t really fault the place; after all, I normally don’t expect to meet people when I stay at hotels, and I certainly don’t resent being asked for my passport and entry papers or having to fill out forms. I had simply gotten used to a different kind of traveling, and a very different kind of environment.

Towns like Puyuhuapi, according to the tiny museum they have there, were formed when the Chilean government offered free land to anyone who was willing to settle in the middle of nowhere. In Puyuhuapi’s case, some young German guys took advantage of this offer and immigrated in the 1930s. The place was completely isolated and only reachable by water; there’s a picture of the first Jeep coming over with its front tires in one small boat and its back tires in another. When the Carretera was constructed, local residents pushed to have it routed through Puyuhuapi, finally giving them road access to the rest of Chile. And the road is still largely dirt and rock, often without services of any kind for miles and miles.

What this means is, people help each other. I told Marilyn I was astounded by her generosity, that I could never be as nice as her family, but when a bus broke down in front of me and the driver asked me for rope, I didn’t hesitate. Not because I’m nice, but because we are in the middle of nowhere and other people have saved my ass repeatedly and I instinctively feel that it is in my own self-interest to promote a culture where people help each other. If the same thing had happened in Puerto Varas, I would have probably looked at that same $4 strap I gave him and thought, buy your own damn rope. Find a mechanic; call a tow-truck; this is not my problem.

That might be my favorite thing about the Carretera — the sense that everyone is in this together. And, though I was always grateful to arrive at sections that were paved, I do wonder if the road improvements currently underway will change that culture. Hopefully not.

A wacky museum in Puerto Varas stuffed with art and random old things.

Across the street from the museum.

It was a 24-hour ferry ride from Puerto Chacabuco back to Puerto Montt. Most of the time it was a smooth ride, but breakfast was challenging; the room kept leaning first to one side and then to the other, and it was hard to walk in a straight line.

Meals were prepared for us in a big cafeteria and served in shifts; first they called everyone in odd-numbered cabins and then even. I didn’t understand what they were talking about until they did the English translation, because I didn’t know the words for even and odd, but they are par and impar, meaning pair or non-pair. I love language.

Anyway. Here is where I slept:

The employees live on the ship for three months at a time, and then they get one month off. The two that I spent a lot of time talking to are both moving on to other jobs soon — one got a job at Disneyworld (or “at Mickey Mouse,” as he put it) and the other, who speaks five languages, including Russian, is moving to Germany to work as a translator.

Sometimes I think working in tourism would be a great way to travel, but then I remember that you have to smile at snobby, unreasonable assholes and be nice to them even when they are so rude you want to punch them in the face.

A huge chess board on the top deck.

I posted that last entry from my phone so I couldn’t include photos, but now I finally have strong enough wifi…

And here is Matias with his guitar strapped to the back of his bike:

I’d heard rumors of a Casa de Ciclistas in Villa Mañihuales — a free place for cyclists to crash — but no one had ever been there, and, as the cycling trio pointed out, even if it did exist, there probably wouldn’t be any space left. I asked about it at the tourist office when I got to Mañihuales, and I was told, no, it’s gone now.

So I was skeptical when, halfway in between Mañihuales and Coyhaique, I met some cyclists who had stayed at such a house, not in Mañihuales, but in Coyhaique. But no, they told me, we just came from there, here, let me give you the number.

Sure enough, I found the house (thank you, Google maps; Coyhaique, like Puerto Montt, does not have an abundance of street signs), and, though the owner is out biking for a couple of months, a friend is looking after the house while he’s gone. It’s a tiny place but there’s a bathroom, a kitchen, and space in the yard for camping. There’s a jar in the corner where you can throw in a bill or two to cover gas and electricity or whatever, but no one’s ever even pointed it out to me; it’s strictly voluntary. And, according to Matias, who was at the table when I came in, there’s a whole network of Casas de Ciclista throughout South America. (He would know; he started in Mexico. He basically travels for years at a time and only goes back to Germany to save up money for his next trip. He also travels with a full-size guitar, which I find impressive.)

When I walked in, Matias was in the house along with another guy, and, since the owner’s friend was still at work, they gave me the layout. I asked if the bathroom was free, and a voice came from inside of it: “Ask if her name is Katherine!”

“How did you know that?” I shouted.

“Because I’m Samuel!” he said — Samuel who I biked with along the coast my second day back on the Carretera. He had recognized my voice.

“Oh my God,” I said, “this is the best day ever.”

Samuel had been traveling with the other two guys for several days, and I was kind of envious — they had all sorts of inside jokes and stories, and seemed to get along really well. Mostly, of course, the jokes were about misadventures — Samuel had once commented that at least no one had broken a spoke or a bike rack, and the next day, both happened. After a similar comment about the great weather, they saw a week of rain.

Most recently, Samuel and one of the others drank from a river without using a filter, and both wound up in the hospital. They were still recovering when I saw them. They left the next morning, and I was the only cyclist left in the house, but at night, two more groups showed up — and one of them was people I had met before (including the guy who made his bike panniers out of recycling bins).

Coyhaique is an actual city, not just a pueblo with four or five streets. I had to run some errands (find a cash machine, look for postcards) so I biked a mile or two to the plaza — but without any of my bags or panniers, which was incredible; my bike felt so light it was almost awkward.

Tomorrow I bike to the coast and then on Friday I catch my ferry, this time a much bigger boat, with beds and everything. It’s a 24-hour trip and I’ve been told that around 3 or 4 in the morning, I should expect some serious rocking.

After that I think I’m going to keep biking; there’s a lake north of Puerto Montt that would take a few days to bike around, and then I can catch a bus north to Santiago and, if I have time, bop over to Valparaiso for a day or two before my flight home.

So that’s the plan. Though today, I must confess, my legs are still sore, even after a rest day; I think I need a rest week.

One of those giant flies I told you about. They seem to be dead now, but there are still regular flies buzzing around. I know at least one person who’s fallen off his bike while trying to swat them away — and I’ve come close.

Some Chilean dude’s homemade panniers, made from recycling bins.

Tan lines. I’m not wearing a white shirt; that’s my skin.

And another beautiful place!

Today, Villa Amengual
An old man slowly looks me up and down and tells me I’m in really good shape for an American. Um…

Tuesday, Villa Santa Lucia to La Junta
Going downhill over the ripio, I don’t see the series of holes in front of me until it’s too late. I bump over them at top speed and one of my panniers flies off my bike. The four French cyclists resting in the shade yell at me to stop. The one who speaks English tells me that when I took air, it was spectacular.

January 13, Puerto Montt to La Arena
I see the same bus that took me back to Puerto Montt two days earlier. The driver recognizes me and honks and waves. I wave back.

Wednesday, La Junta
Someone tells me that when I go back to Minnesota and start my next play, he hopes I remember them and this night that we sat outside and drank wine together.

I don’t know, I say. I think we’d have to fight. There needs to be conflict, some kind of problem or obstacle. Just hanging out and drinking wine and being happy — it’s good life, but not good theater.

He smiles in approval and pours more wine.